No name had been mentioned before: indeed it was not necessary even now; Mironda had known Sikoro's errand from the manner of entry into her compound.
The abominable man leant forward and repeated: "Now, now, now," then put his hand to his ear. The woman listened, too, and heard distinctly the shriek and gurgle of a dying man: then silence save for the pattering of slaves' feet and their shrill inquiries and conjectures. Miyobo had been strangled just outside the compound in which the woman sat.
Mironda looked at Sikoro with wide eyes of fear. He, of course, enjoyed the situation. Did he not hate this woman for her overbearing pride? Had not she and Miyobo fooled him more than once, and had it not been the merest chance which had delivered them into his hand?
His one eye contracted with merriment, a cruel smile lifted his lip and disclosed a row of sharply-filed teeth—the tribal mark of a subject race; he was a freed slave.
Pointing to the bangles on the woman's arm, Sikoro asked: "What are you doing with the Chief's ivory?"
One by one Mironda took her bangles off and placed them on the mat before her.
"Is not that the Chief's new shawl?"
The wretched woman took the garment from her shoulders and laid it on the mat beside the bangles.
"And why," said Sikoro, "do you sit on the Chief's mat?"
Mironda slowly rose to her feet.